Doctor Who: After Dark
by BeansAndBondageChairs
Summary: Or 'A Guided Tour of a Fangirl's Mind'. This is one of those fics where Murphy's Law really applies; anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Join us for the thrills and spills of the preparations for a Time Lord wedding. Pure, unadulterated CRACK! R&R!
1. Chick Flicks

**Doctor Who: After Dark**

**_(Or 'A Guided Tour of a Fangirl's Mind')_  
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**Disclaimer: We are but humble fangirls and own nothing but the warped ideas that come from the Big Bags of Weird we fondly refer to as our brains. RTD and Teh Moff, we salute you for doing a more serious job with _Doctor Who_ than we have...**

**A Little Warning: This fic contains copious amounts of Time Lord slash, sexual references, and randomness in abundance. If any of these things offend you then you're in entirely the wrong place. Our apologies, please feel free to take a cookie before you leave =]  
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**A/N: Just a little note from your authors...none of what you read here should be taken seriously in the slightest (apart from the obvious Time Lord slash but you will have noticed that in _Sound of Drums/Last of the Time Lords _and_ End of Time Pt.1 and 2 _anyway!). We're hoping to have a chapter upload per week but it might be every two weeks depending on which one of us is responsible for that particular chapter and whether it is being a particular bitch. We love you all and hope you enjoy this!**

**A/N Take Two: Please remember that reviews make us both happy bunnies and if you do have a go at pressing that purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page, there may be a very pretty Time Lord in it for you!**

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In which Owen admits to watching chick flicks…

It was one of those days when Murphy's Law really applied; anything that _can_ go wrong, _will_ go wrong. And oh boy, had it! In just a few hours, the carefully planned ceremony in the perfect location with all the important things that a wedding is supposed to have had descended into pure chaos. The ring-bearer had blown a fuse, the bridesmaid dresses didn't match the carpet, one of the bridegrooms had ended up on the run from UNIT operatives, and the other had been stunned, doused in water, and given the kiss of life by an ex-boyfriend. All in all, it had been an eventful morning.

They'd finally found the Master lurking in one of the Torchwood cells with Janet the Weevil (but the Doctor decided not to ask why the Master looked so happy about it), the Doctor had muddled up some vaguely believable excuse about the smell of unfamiliar (or rather all too familiar) aftershave on his clothes, and despite rumours of an alien fleet descending on their doorstep, the wedding was finally underway.

"You've got some explaining to do later, Mister I-Wasn't-Talking-To-Shakespeare-Honest!" the Master hissed as the priest droned on.

"Oh come on, like you weren't giving Casanova the eye!" the Doctor murmured in reply. "Anyway, _concentrate._ This is our wedding, remember? We only get one of these."

"Hey! How exactly is it my fault that he looks exactly like you? Besides, you never know…one of these days I might find a newer model and I'll get a second wedding…" The Doctor sighed; ignoring his husband-to-be's taunting and trying to focus on what the priest was saying.

"…If anyone here knows of any lawful impediment why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace…"

The whole room took a collective breath but the silence continued and the two Time Lords let out a sigh of relief. The priest was just opening his mouth to continue with the vows when it happened…

There was a small, almost inaudible cough and then the sound of rustling clothing as someone stood up. The priest closed his mouth again, a placid smile on his face, waiting for the objection.

"They can't get married!" the objector pointed out. The Master sighed and slid his hand down his face, as the Doctor turned round, staring incredulously at Owen.

"They can't get married because…urgh…because I love him!" Owen forced the words out, gesturing wildly in the Master's direction, whilst the object of his affections rolled his eyes exasperatedly. The whole room turned and stared at Owen, visibly shocked.

"But Owen," Gwen began, confused, "you're not gay…I mean, I should _know_ since we've been shagging for months…I knew you had an anal fixation but I just thought you liked it a bit…" she trailed off, realising that they were in public and she'd already said too much. "You're not gay." she clarified.

Owen laughed nervously. "Oh, um, did I say that? Sorry…I was, erm, watching _'Four Weddings and a Funeral'_ last night…chick flicks do strange things to a guy…I meant to say, um, that they can't get married because…because…because they're both, um, aliens…so, uh, yeah…" he finished lamely.

"Ok, so we're alien, what are you gonna do? Call Mulder and Scully?" challenged the Master before turning back to the priest. "Can we just get on with this? Owen is an idiot, no one has any objections and I'd really like to get married now so that I can get away from this crap excuse for a planet…so come on, do your bit…_'I now pronounce you husband and…_husband_'_, etc, etc…"

"Erm, yes, quite…I now pronounce you husband and-"

The ceiling exploded and two parachuting figures descended on the congregation.

"Hello, old chap! Not too late, are we?"


	2. Dictionary

**A/N: So, after the lovely bit of vague foreshadowing in the first chapter, we now present you with the next instalment, set just after EoTPt2...just a little birthday present for David Tennant =D  
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In which the Doctor misreads the Dictionary…

"You're gonna have to run faster than that!" The Doctor called, breathlessly, ducking suddenly to avoid a low branch. He offered his hand to the Master, who would've rather eaten several more tramps than accept it, let alone admit that he was struggling to keep up.

"How far is it to the TARDIS?" The Master managed, just about avoiding slipping in some mud by performing a ridiculous half jump, and pointedly ignoring the wide-eyed, sad face the Doctor was using in his general direction.

His question was answered when they rounded a large clump of bushes - there she was, and the Doctor was clicking his fingers - the doors opened (the Master silently wished he'd stop doing that, it had never been impressive), and - they stumbled into the TARDIS, the Doctor rushing around the console like he had all the energy in the world, damn him, flicking levers and switches and setting their new course.

The Master managed to stay on his feet for a moment, before swaying, and falling flat on his face. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell the Doctor didn't just let him regenerate. He claimed it was because the resurrection had gone wrong, and the outcome might be fatal, but the Master was sure he was just over-attached to the Master's current body. Admittedly, it was one of his better ones, but he'd happily trade it in for a less weak model.

"That was brilliant!" The Doctor enthused, once the time rotor had started to judder into life. He wandered around the console, frowning as he surveyed the Master's position on the TARDIS grating. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah." The Master replied, witheringly, pushing himself up onto his hands. "Just…admiring your floor. It's impressive."

"Oh." The Doctor took a step towards him, then hesitated. "Do you want me to…?"

"Yes." The Master hissed. The Doctor helped him to his feet, clumsily.

"Maybe this was a bad idea." He said, peering into the Master's eyes, evidently concerned. "You need more time to adjust-"

"What I need is a lie down." The Master interrupted, rolling his eyes. "How about it?" He asked, resting a hand on the Doctor's hip with a grin.

"I'm not tired." The Doctor answered, clueless as usual. Then - "Oh. No. Sorry, it's…not a good idea. You're still in a fragile state, and I don't want to compromise-"

"Right." The Master snatched his hand away from the Doctor, as though he'd been burned. "No, that's fine."

"It's for your own safety." The Doctor reminded him, gently.

"Since I'm 'fragile'," The Master sneered at the very idea. "You're impossible."

"That's what you love about me." The Doctor grinned, widely, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels in an insufferably happy sort of way.

The Master muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a denial. He was tempted to wonder (loudly) how, exactly, he wasn't too fragile to run for his life, but he suspected the Doctor's undoubtedly long-winded excuse wouldn't be worth the trouble.

"That wasn't bad," The Doctor mused, hands in his pockets. "For a date, I mean."  
An awkward silence followed this pronouncement, in which the Master did nothing but stare at the Doctor, open-mouthed. "What?" He asked, after a while, evidently uncomfortable.

"That was your idea of a date?" The Master asked, incredulously.

The Doctor opened his mouth to reply, then seemed to think better of what he'd been about to say."Wasn't it?" He said, at last, defiantly. "We had dinner-"

"The muck those creatures pushed into our cell barely constituted food." The Master cut in, swiftly.

"We were together, though. Isn't that the point of a date? Spending time together?" The Doctor blinked, those stupid glasses of his making the Master think of an especially eager-to-please owl.

"You're hopeless." was the Master's only comment. "I dread to think what your idea of a second date is. Setting fire to Davros's lawn, perhaps? Prank calling the Shadow Proclamation?"

"Don't be ridiculous," The Doctor admonished. "Davros doesn't have a lawn. Anyway, since when were you, of all people, averse to troublemaking? I suppose tonight was a waste of time because there were no fatalities."

"Alright, if there had been a few casualties, maybe it wouldn't have been a complete waste of time." The Master shrugged, as though his penchant for violence was beyond his control. "But the fact still remains, it wasn't a date, Doctor. Not by a long shot."

The Doctor leant against the TARDIS console, eyeing him, thoughtfully. "What's a date, then? Since the dictionary definition isn't enough for you."

"Dictionary definition?" The Master repeated, with a laugh. "Where, pray tell, in the dictionary definition of a date, does it mention near-death experiences, capture and overnight imprisonment in a cell, followed by a hasty escape?" The Doctor didn't show any signs of defending himself, so the Master continued. "A date's supposed to be a seduction. Candles and dinner, and you're supposed to make an effort. The point being that you're likely to get sex out of it in the end."

"Your interpretation of earth culture never fails to amaze me. Like the whole 'Burns Night' fiasco-"

"I'm well aware of the history," The Master interrupted, in a tone of great superiority. "But I've never liked haggis."

"Which makes setting fire to a barn perfectly plausible, apparently." The Doctor muttered, darkly.

"I was conforming to the local culture! Burns Night! A name like that just asks for trouble. I only obliged." The Master said, carelessly. "And don't change the subject, I hate it when you do that. You owe me."

"I do not!" The Doctor objected. "In fact, I-" The rest of the Doctor's sentence was cut off by a knock at the door.

"How conveniently timed." The Master said to no one in particular, throwing himself down onto the rickety pilot's seats at the side of the console.

"But…But, what?" The Doctor pulled the TARDIS screen towards himself, quickly. "What?"

"Someone's at the door. I believe it's customary to answer at this point." The Master said.

"Shut up and use your brain for once!" The Doctor said, evidently irritated. "There can't be someone at the door! We were drifting! Nothing can survive in the vortex, it's…" He faltered, and swallowed, nervously.

Another knock. The Master folded his arms. "Are you going to get that?" He asked, in as bored a tone as he could manage.

The knock was followed by an insistent, irritated pounding on the wood of the TARDIS door. The Doctor took an uncertain step forwards, the Master pushing him, encouragingly. He leapt down the ramp and threw the TARDIS door open.

"Hello," He was greeted, not by the rippling twist and swirl of the vortex, but by a brown haired woman in a dressing gown. She was smiling slightly, as if trying not to laugh.

"Gwen Cooper!" He beamed, recognizing her at once as a member of Torchwood.

"But what…" The TARDIS seemed to be parked in a flat. "But, I don't-"

"You're parked in our bathroom doorway, and, erm, Rhys needs the toilet."

A man came into view, grinning sheepishly, hopping from one foot to the other. "Alright, mate? You couldn't move, could you? I'm desperate."

"Oh." The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Ok. Sorry." He shut the TARDIS door and raced back to the controls.

"What was all that about?" The Master asked, vaguely, as he flicked down a large switch.

"I honestly have no idea." The Doctor replied, cheerfully.


	3. Swimming Pool in the Library

**A/N: We have RETURNED! ConfusedinTime's computer has been ressurected and LiteratiAngel's exams are no longer consuming her soul, so now we can get back to the two most important things in the whole wide Universe: Doctor Who, and crack!fic =D**

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In which there isn't a swimming pool in the library...

It took a whole week for the Doctor to realise that he'd never visited Torchwood.

It was during one of the blissfully quiet moments on the TARDIS, when the Doctor wasn't remembering to feel guilty, and the Master wasn't sulking, and neither of them could summon the will to bicker with each other.

They were sat in the smaller of the TARDIS's kitchens, both sat opposite each other at the small, slightly wonky table. The Doctor stirred sugar into his fourth cup of tea, and glanced at the Master, who was hunched over the table, hands locked together, a slight frown on his face.

"We should go to Torchwood." The Doctor said, abruptly, without thinking.

This revelation had taken a surprisingly long time to sink in, especially considering that the Doctor was, well, the Doctor. Since their accidental visit to a flat in Cardiff (something which they had yet to discover the cause of - the Doctor was worried that there was something wrong with the TARDIS, the Master didn't particularly care), they'd dropped in on ancient Rome, met the Beatles ("After the first four times, the magic has definitely gone," The Master muttered, when they got back to the TARDIS), saved a planet or seven, and, to the Master's disgust, drank an unbelievable amount of tea.

The Master glowered at the dainty, willow patterned cup of tea in front of the Doctor, and didn't bother replying.

"Jack's Torchwood, I mean." The Doctor explained, dropping the teaspoon onto the table with a loud clatter. "What d'you think?"

The Master stared at him.

"You're genuinely asking me this question?"

"Well..." The Doctor considered for a moment. "You could stay in the TAR- No, no, forget that." He backtracked, hurriedly, at the Master's sudden, scheming smile.

"You're right." The Master said, clapping his hands, enthusiastically. "We should visit. Take some flowers. Lilies, maybe? I'm sure Jack's completely forgotten about the time I killed him. And that other time that I killed him. That's without mentioning the other hundred or so times. His brain's so tiny I bet he's even forgotten about my other minor indiscretions. You know, like the slight slip-up that was the Valiant, and-"

"Ok, ok." The Doctor interrupted, heavily. "I get the point."

"He does have those handy little amnesia pills." The Master said, thoughtfully. "Retcon."

"We're not drugging Jack."

The Master shrugged. "It's a plan. Do you have one?" He snatched up a sugar cube from the pot between them and bit it in half, absent mindedly.

"It wouldn't be for long," The Doctor said, pulling a face as the Master took another sugar cube. "Honestly, a day at the most, and afterwards...afterwards, we can..." He faltered, apparently remembering that making promises to the Master wasn't exactly advisable. "We can do something you want to do."

"Really." The Master said, voice devoid of intonation.

"No." The Doctor said, frowning, as though it had only just occurred to him. "Anything, excluding murder, violence, destruction...You know the rest."

"In short," The Master sighed, managing to sound extremely hard-done by. "We can do anything I want to do, excluding everything that I really want to do."

"That's about right."

"_Wonderful_." The Master said, slouching a little further down in his chair. "I look forward to it."

...

"We couldn't have landed inside the base?" The Master demanded, as the Doctor locked the TARDIS door, glancing surreptitiously around at the swarms of tourists wandering by, giving the two of them strange looks.

The Master didn't blame them; it wasn't every day that police boxes appeared, parked neatly in empty spaces in car parks. Resisting the urge to make rude hand gestures at them, he turned to the Doctor, who seemed to be making sure the TARDIS was utterly and completely locked.

"Of course not." He said, at last, stowing his keys away in his coat pocket. "That'd be rude, just landing in the middle of Jack's house."

"Like that's ever stopped you before." The Master muttered. He narrowed his eyes at the Doctor, who met his stare, wide eyed (or 'clueless', as the Master preferred to call it). "You're scared, aren't you? You really are."

The Doctor became very interested in his fraying shirt cuff all of a sudden. "Admittedly, I'm slightly...worried, about seeing Jack again," he said, starting to amble away down the pavement, painfully slowly, evidently hoping to draw out their walk to the Plass. The Master followed.

"But of course, I'm really looking forward to it," he scoffed. "You're such an idiot."

"Ok, so neither of us want to be here." The Doctor said, swallowing nervously. The water tower was now visible in the distance, reflecting the sky and the surrounding buildings. "But I owe Jack this much."

…

The Doctor sincerely hoped that the Torchwood Hub was more difficult to break into without the aid of a sonic screwdriver. It took a matter of minutes for them locate and activate the lift, hidden by a perception filter.

"Oh, so it's impolite to land straight in the Hub, but breaking and entering is completely acceptable?"

"I haven't broken anything. I gave it a little nudge, that's all. Sonicking and entering. Totally different." The Doctor protested, mildly. "It's genius, this is." He said, nodding down at the lift as it started to descend. "The perception filter's residual, of course, all thanks to the TARDIS, but it's...very resourceful. I'll have to ask Jack how they did it."

"You're still pretending he's going to welcome us with open arms?" The Master rolled his eyes. "I'm supposed to be the insane one in this relationship, in case you've forgotten."

Unfortunately, the Doctor appeared not to have heard him; instead, he was peering down at the Torchwood Hub. "Beautiful!" The Doctor's voice echoed around the large, underground base, only half lit. Inconsistent splashes of light dotted the Hub, leaving disconcerting patches of shadow.

"That's a matter of opinion." The Master muttered to himself, staring up at the blue patch of sky as it got further and further away.

With a quick blast of the sonic screwdriver, the speed of the lift increased. The Doctor was staring around, frowning. The Hub was deserted.

With a hiss, the lift reached ground level.

"Hello?" The Doctor called. The greeting was only returned by an echo. Water dripped from somewhere. He jumped down from the lift and took a few, cautious steps forwards. "Jack?"

There was still no reply. The Master moved to stand next to the Doctor, slouching in such a way that made it clear that if he had a watch, he'd be checking it.

"They're not in." The Doctor said hopefully.

"I wouldn't be so sure." The Master shook his head, staring into the shadows.

"Hands up!" Someone ordered, just as the lights flickered on fully.

"Told you so." The Master said, smugly, as the Torchwood team emerged, guns pointed directly at them.

"Torchwood!" The Doctor's attempt at an upbeat greeting fell flat; probably something to do with the guns - not to mention the hostile glares - that were being directed at them. "Is Jack not in?"

"I said hands up."

"He's not here." Gwen said, uncertainly. The aim of her gun didn't waver, but she looked apologetic.

"Oh, that's such a shame!" The Master said, clutching a hand to his heart before turning to the Doctor. "Can we leave now?"

"You're not going anywhere." The Doctor didn't recognize the man who moved forwards, his gun trained directly between the Master's eyes. "Tosh?"

A dark haired woman in glasses turned on one of the many computer terminals - the screen was full of numbers, some sort of high-tech scanning program.

"Two sonic devices, one psychic communications device, several items that don't register as weapons, high levels of energy, transcendental in origin…"

"Empty your pockets." Ianto - the Doctor was vaguely sure that that was his name - joined the welcoming party, gun in one hand, a large, clear plastic bag in the other.

"You're not going to do as he says?" The Master staring at the Doctor like he'd suddenly morphed into a woman.

The Doctor didn't respond, instead pulled the sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket in a resigned sort of way.

"Be thankful it's not a strip search…" he murmured, dropping the screwdriver into the bag that Ianto held out.

"We haven't exactly ruled that out, yet." Gwen admitted, with a small, knowing smirk of the cat who had just been given all the cream with the bonus addition of two very pretty aliens on top.

A few, awkwardly quiet minutes passed, during which time the Doctor produced all manner of weird and wonderful items from his various pockets.

"Bigger on the inside." He explained, apologetically, as, with some difficulty, he produced a large, blue golfing umbrella from his trouser pocket.

"Oi," The man the Doctor didn't know spoke, gun pointing directly at the Master's forehead. "Saxon. Pockets."

"Owen, isn't it?" The Master said, perfectly calmly. "I don't have anything. It's this insipid fool who insists on carrying about his clutter."

"Is this really necessary?"

"It's standard protocol for any captives." The second woman, Tosh, addressed him - the Doctor was sure he'd seen her somewhere before.

"Actually, standard protocol is to shoot on sight." Ianto said, his smile wide, genuine yet oddly dangerous.

The contents of the Doctor's pockets, were, meanwhile, attracting some attention from the assembled team, who were peering at some of the more obviously benign items with interest.

"Is that...?" Owen indicated something on the top of the ever growing pile.

"It's a pen." The Doctor explained, hurriedly, blushing slightly.

"Pretty big. For a pen." Owen commented.

"It's a pen!" The Doctor insisted. "I don't see what-"

"Nice pen." Ianto said, grinning.

"Listen, Owen," Gwen stepped forwards, gun still raised, but less purposefully this time. "The Doctor was in my flat a few weeks ago. If he had been possessed, wouldn't he have killed me there and then?" She glanced in the evidence bag. "Oh my God! Is that-?"

"The Doctor's 'special pen'?" Ianto said. "Yep."

With interest, Toshiko moved forwards to have a look for herself.

"Jack said you were asexual." She said, frowning at the Doctor, whose face was redder than a post-box.

"It was a present!" He said, hotly. "It'd be rude if I didn't…" He faltered. "Isn't the most important thing that it isn't a weapon? Scan it. It's harmless."

"A present?" The Master finally decided to speak, nudging the Doctor. "From who?"

His question went unanswered, while Toshiko pulled on gloves to scan the definitely-phallic whatever-it-was.

"It's…sonic." She said, after a moment's silence, with a valiant attempt to keep a straight face.

"Can we not, please?" The Doctor wasn't meeting anyone's eye, especially the Master's, who was evidently loving the direction the conversation had taken. "Least of all at gunpoint?"

"Standard protocol, I'm afraid." Owen said. "Now, can we get these two restrained, please?"

"Shouldn't we contact Jack?" Gwen said, taking the now-sealed bag of the Doctor's belongings and dumping it somewhat unceremoniously on a desk a few feet away.

"No." Ianto said, fiercely - so much so that they all turned to look at him in surprise. "We can deal with this ourselves."

…

Being held at gunpoint could be considered stressful. Terrifying, even. The fact that the Doctor and the Master were both time lords and wouldn't die if they were shot lessened the tense nature of the situation, of course, but that was besides the point.

After an hour, however, semi-almost-but-not-quite imprisonment in the Torchwood Hub was just plain boring. They'd been handcuffed to the nearest workstation, and then, to make matters worse in the Master's opinion - handcuffed to each other. The Torchwood team had retreated to a safe distance away, muttering to each other, presumably deciding what to do with them.

"They should be letting us go." The Master said, after a while. It had taken all of ten minutes for him to get irritated with their state of imprisonment. "I'm just the ex Prime Minister to them, right? They're not supposed to remember...any of that other stuff. What did you do?"

"Don't be an idiot, they don't remember." The Doctor muttered out of the corner of his mouth, staring at the Torchwood team. "There is the little matter of you assassinating the President, however..."

"Oh." The Master seemed surprised. "I'd forgotten about that." He grinned. "That was good, wasn't it?"

"Yes, the senseless murder of an innocent. Some of your best work."

"Get off your high horse, Mr. Genocide." The Doctor didn't even respond to that, and the Master slouched further against the desk. "What are you doing?" He asked, when the Doctor leant forwards slightly, squinting at the team, evidently concentrating.

"Trying to lip read." He gave the Master a passing glance. "You're not helping."

"That's it? No brilliant escape plan?"

"They'll let us out eventually. Besides, I don't want to escape, I want to know what they have against me."

"Hoping to gain a few more adoring fans?" The Master sneered.

"I'm trying to concentrate." The Doctor said, patiently, then fell silent for a few seconds, concentrating. "They're not going to tell Jack, from what I can gather. And then...something about carp?"

"Of course, they're going to make us clean their fishtank. Standard practice with all Torchwood prisoners."

"I did say I was trying to lipread, not that I was any good."

The Master rolled his eyes. "On that note..." He raised his voice. "As much fun as this has been, I'm getting tired now. So. Lock us up or let us go."

"You're giving us orders?" The one called Ianto asked, while the other one - Owen - drew his gun with impressive speed.

"See, he's the trigger happy one." The Master stage-whispered behind his hand to the Doctor, who closed his eyes and groaned. "Which leaves the sort of clever one, the pointless one, and the one with a dark and mysterious past. Take your pick."

The Master had barely finished speaking when all four guns were drawn, once again, and pointed directly at them.

"Master-"

"No, you're right, Jack's the dark, brooding, mysterious one. How could I forget? Alright, you've talked me into it! I guess that one's the coffee boy now!" He beamed at them all, not seeming particularly bothered by the situation. On the contrary, it seemed like he'd just started to enjoy himself.

"If they were here to kill us, surely they wouldn't have surrendered?" Gwen said, indecisively.

"A murderer and Torchwood's number one enemy. Yeah, I'm sure they just dropped by for a cup of tea and a chat." Owen tightened his grip on his gun.

"Coffee, actually." The Master corrected him. "Black. I'm sick of tea."

No one bothered acknowledging that he'd spoken.

"I wanted to see Jack, that's all." The Doctor appealed. "I can come back another time, maybe...maybe by myself."

"So much for solidarity." The Master muttered.

"I think Gwen might be right." Toshiko piped up, uncertainly. "The Doctor's...well. Harmless, isn't he?"

"Well, I'd hardly say that." The Doctor began, then seemed to think better of it. "Sorry, sorry, carry on."

Toshiko looked at him for a minute, then continued.

"And the original sanction about him being an enemy of Torchwood is probably mostly defunct now, anyway."

"We can't have him here when Jack gets back." Ianto said, suddenly, using his gun to indicate the Master, who smiled at him, cheerfully.

"Fine." Owen snapped, throwing his gun down onto a nearby desk. "Let them go."

…

"Ouch."

The Doctor, who was lying on his stomach in the TARDIS library, rolled his eyes, the Master's unnecessarily loud declaration of pain apparently not enough to draw his attention away from the book he was reading. He finished his paragraph, then looked up for long enough to give the Master a withering stare.

"You walked all the way from the control room just for that?"

"It hurts!" The Master whined, flopping down onto the floor opposite the Doctor and fixing him with what he considered to be his saddest face.

"What do you expect me to do, kiss it better?"

"If you're offering."

The Doctor turned a page rather pointedly.

"Hey!" The Master slapped his hand down in the middle of the large book. The Doctor looked up at him. "It was your idea to visit Torchwood. You indirectly caused my pain!

"You caused your own pain." The Doctor said, unsympathetically, lifting the Master's hand off his book.

Much like many of the situations they found themselves caught in, leaving Torchwood wasn't exactly the smoothest exit of a place the Doctor had ever experienced. Jack had chosen the worst possible moment to arrive back at the Hub - just as Gwen and Toshiko were attempting to free themselves from their handcuffs, in fact. The Master had been unable to contain his glee at Jack's arrival. He'd also been unable to keep quiet, which was why, after mentioning the Year That Never Was (the phrase 'job well done' had been used), Jack had punched him in the face. Twice.

"Fat lot of help you were." The Master pointed out. "'Jack! Nooo! Don't hurt him! I'd die without him, I'd just die!'"

"I don't know what alternative reality you slipped into during that particular conversation-"

"One where Jack wasn't salivating over you, I think." The Master interrupted, his disgust evident.

"-but I didn't say that. And I don't think much of your impression of me, either."

"You're hardly in a position to talk! Remember when we first left Gallifrey?" The Doctor didn't reply, so the Master shifted forwards, leaning on the book with a triumphant smirk. "Whenever you'd had too much to drink, you'd come out with this hideous travesty of what I was supposedly like, and it was terrible."

"You were the only one who thought it was terrible, if I remember rightly." The Doctor said, folding his arms.

"Drawing yourself a beard with marker pen does not a good Master impression make." The Master flopped further forwards so that he was, effectively, using the Doctor's chosen book as a pillow. "You put all that crap back in your pockets, didn't you? Can I borrow your mirror?"

"If I give it to you, will you let me read?" The Doctor asked with little hope, fumbling in his trouser pocket. The Master sat up, accordingly, and the Doctor handed over a compact mirror.

There was silence, for a few, precious seconds, while the Master surveyed his slightly-red jaw, prodding at his face.

"Great." The Master held the mirror out to the Doctor, as though he couldn't bear to look at himself for any longer. "I'm going to bruise. I mean, I was expecting Jack to fly off the handle, but I foolishly assumed that you'd be the one he'd hit. But oh no, his creepy obsession with you apparently saves you from his fists."

Despairingly, the Master rolled over to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling, while the Doctor continued reading.

"Am I really harmless?" The Doctor asked, after a while.

"Of course not, dear." The Master replied, vaguely. He sat up, closing the large book with a smart snap - dust rose from its ancient pages. "Now," He said, catching hold of the Doctor's tie and pulling him forwards. "What was that you said about kissing me better?"


	4. All the World's a Stage

**A/N: If anyone's interested, _'Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel'_ is a truly epic film, chock-a-block with _Who_ references, and I encourage everyone and anyone to watch it...****  
**

**A/N Take Two: Apologies again for the lateness! I should probably say that this is no fault of _ConfusedinTime_'s...Unfortunately I fail totally at getting this chapter finished on time ****because every single character refused to behave...that and I was freaked about getting my A Level results so it kinda screwed with my crack!writing (I know..._'excuses, excuses'_)...We're now back on track schedule-wise since we've got five completely finished chapters to post over the next few weeks so I'll shut up now and let you get on with reading...**

**A/N Take Three: Reviews make us both happy bunnies and keep the crack!writing flowing so have a clicky on the purdy little button at the bottom of the page...Still not convinced? There may be a pretty Time Lord in it for you...**

**...**

In which the Master realises that all the world's a stage...**  
**

The TARDIS landed with a resounding thud. The Master pushed himself up from the jump seat (which he had fallen onto face-first) and muttered mutinously about all the very imaginative ways he would punish the Doctor for being the root cause of the upholstered stitching imprint down his right cheek.

"So, which decade did you put a dent in this time?" he asked, glaring at the console.

The Doctor looked affronted. "That was Donna!" he exclaimed, as the Master muttered something about the problems with Human drivers. There was a pause while the Doctor's stopped acting like the Master had mortally insulted him and he shuffled his feet sheepishly, mumbling something inaudible.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that..."

"The 1600s"

"What about them?" the Master asked, puzzled.

"I, uh, just dented them...?" the Doctor explained, seemingly fascinated by the study of his shoes as the Master glared at him.

"I suppose that means we've landed then?" he asked savagely.

The Doctor gulped; he knew the Master hated Earth history more than anything and if he'd just put a dent in the 1600s, that meant that's where they'd landed and the TARDIS would need to recuperate before making a return journey. This meant spending the night in whichever area of 17th Century Earth they'd parked on...The Doctor didn't like to think of how the Master would punish him for this fatal piloting error.

"Weeeellll…yes?" he squeaked.

"In the 1600s?"

"Yes…"

"How far in?"

"About 1609, why?"

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Master, looking far too happy about being stuck in an era of Earth history before the invention of the toilet.

"Really? What's excellent about it?" asked the Doctor, taken aback by the Master's sudden enthusiasm.

"Come on! I thought you _loved_ Earth and all its…_history_!" said the Master.

"I do, but not when you're being so out of character…" replied the Doctor warily.

"Well, you're the one who's always saying that I should broaden my horizons a bit. That I should give Earth history a chance. Aren't you?"

"Weeelll, yeah, but-" the Doctor began.

"Then what's the problem?"

"N-nothing!" exclaimed the Doctor, still looking a little shell-shocked. "I'm just wondering when you started listening to a word I say…"

"What are you talking about?" asked the Master, trying his best to look affronted. "I listen to you all the time!"

"Yeah? Like when?" enquired the Doctor, baiting him.

"Um…you know, that time…that time you said the, uh, the thing…that thing with the, erm…with the stuff?…No?" he said hopefully.

"Hmm…I was feeling particularly eloquent that day, wasn't I?" teased the Doctor.

"Shut up," muttered the Master, reaching under the console and pulling out a battered copy of _"The Rough Guide to Sol III"_. He flipped through the pages with unnecessary vigour and the Doctor was about to protest when the Master slammed the book down onto a button-free patch of the console and stabbed a finger onto the page. "There," he said tetchily. "I want to meet Shakespeare! Are you happy now, Mr 'You-Never-Want-To-See-Anything-Earthy-Or-Historical'?"

The Doctor shuffled his feet sheepishly, avoiding the Master's glare. "What?" spat the Master, his eyebrows narrowing.

"N-nothing…" squeaked the Doctor. "Shakespeare! Yes! _Lovely_, shall we go now?" He grabbed his coat from the coral strut in the wall and practically sprinted out of the door.

…

The Doctor led the way through the crowded streets of London with the Master following behind, tiptoeing across the cobbles to avoid the puddles of household waste that were spread haphazardly along the streets as the Globe Theatre came into view, towering majestically over the squat thatched roofs of Southwark. They walked through the doors, pushing their way through the clustering crowds until they reached the wooden panelling of the stage. The Doctor hopped up onto the raised platform and the Master followed suit.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," came a pompous voice from near the back of the stage. "No one is allowed onto the stage unless they be actors or author. You, my dear sirs, are neither. What is your business here?"

"Ah," exclaimed the Doctor, striding towards the owner of the voice, hand outstretched. "You must be the Master of the Revels, so nice to finally meet you! Shall we shake hands? We still do that nowadays, don't we? The handshake thing? No?"

The Master of the Revels shook the Doctor's hand, nonplussed. "Who _are _you?"

The Doctor flashed the psychic paper and said, "Don't mind us. Move along now, my good man!"

The Master of the Revels' eyes widened and he bowed so low that his greasy nose almost touched his boots. "Oh, I do apologise, your lordship!"

"Not at all!"

The Master waited until they were through the doors and into the backstage area before he spoke. "So. Who did he think you were?"

The Doctor checked the psychic paper. "Earl of Surrey, apparently."

"Why Surrey?"

"I don't know…Never been. I suppose it's better than being Earl of Lancashire, though. Rains less in Surrey."

"Who did he think _I_ was?" asked the Master, getting down to the question he really wanted to ask.

"Um…my page," mumbled the Doctor.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that…"

"My page."

"Your page." It wasn't a question but the Doctor still felt the need for an explanation.

"Weeeeellll, no offence or anything, but I'm dressed slightly more respectably than you…" he trailed off seeing the Master's expression and hastily tried to correct himself. Squeakily. "Not that there's anything _wrong_ with the way you dress or anything, it's just that I'm more period-friendly…and, um, erm…well I'm the only one who had the psychic paper and…and…and I just didn't think…" he finished lamely.

"No. You didn't."

"Sorry…" he offered.

"Just move," muttered the Master. "I'd like to meet Shakespeare before I die of old age, which as you know, would be an achievement…"

"Yeah, yeah…" mumbled the Doctor, pushing through costume racks until they reached a small wooden table with a tallow candle dripping translucent wax onto the scrubbed surface. Shakespeare was sitting at the table, his head bent over a piece of parchment, the feather of his quill twirling around in the air as the ink skittered across the page.

The Master tugged on the arm of the Doctor's coat. "You're _sure_ we landed in 1609?" he asked.

"Positive," he replied, nonplussed.

"Then this is by far the coolest place you've ever taken me!"

"Yeah, ok, we're going to meet Shakespeare…Relax…"

"No, no!" exclaimed the Master in a dramatic stage whisper. "_Far_ cooler than _that_! That bloke from _'Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel'_ got stuck in the bathroom again and ended up in 1609!"

The Doctor looked puzzled and looked from the Master to Shakespeare and back again, then it seemed to dawn on him. "Ah. I think you may be a little confused. Firstly, _'Frequently Asked Questions'_ is a film; we've been over this. Secondly, that's not Dean Lennox Kelly, it's Shakespeare. Say hello…"

The Master moved towards Shakespeare tentatively whilst muttering, "Well it _would_ have been cool…Not quite as 'rock and roll' now…"

"Mister Shakespeare…?" the Master enquired hesitantly, tapping the Bard on the shoulder as lightly as he dared. The Doctor choked on a laugh; he'd never heard the Master refer to anyone as 'Mister' unless he was taking the proverbial Mickey (which did not – according to Rose – refer to Mickey Smith, although the Doctor didn't see why not, since making fun of Mickey was one of his favourite hobbies).

Shakespeare, on the other hand, just continued scribbling. When he _did_ eventually answer – his quill still skittering across the vellum – his voice was full of an exasperated, long-suffering sigh. "No, I won't sign your tunic. If you want a sketch with me, then go outside, Mr Roper's got a bust for that. And no, I most definitely will _not_ shag your cousin twice removed without at least seeing a portrait first. I have some taste, thank you very much…"

"How about shagging _me_ without seeing a portrait first?" replied the Master, adding, "My reputation in the Vegas Galaxies speaks for itself." The Doctor put his head in his hands.

Shakespeare finally turned around (and the Doctor nipped behind a costume rack pronto), an incredulous look on his face. "Who the devil are you?"

"_Finally_!" exclaimed the Master, looking gleeful, although there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I always love it when the one Earthy-type historical person I actually want to meet decides he gives a toss who I am! Does this happen to _you_ a lot?" he asked, turning around to find the Doctor hiding (very badly) behind a ridiculously large ruff. "Oh, you _are_ kidding me!" exclaimed the Master, sighing as he extracted the Doctor from the costumes, which was made especially difficult by the fact that he'd got his foot stuck in the box that contained the codpieces. He turned back to Shakespeare while the Doctor wrestled with a particularly large, jewel-encrusted one that had seemingly taken a fancy to his Converse. "My name is the Master, and that idiot over there is-" But Shakespeare wasn't listening.

"Doctor!" he exclaimed, grabbing him for a hug. The Doctor smiled sheepishly as the Master folded his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for an explanation. The Doctor pretended to ignore him.

"Ohh, I see," said the Master, some sort of realisation dawning across his face.

"Um, _what_ do you see, exactly?" the Doctor asked warily.

"You save all the good historical bits for yourself!" exclaimed the Master childishly. "Decided you were going to meet Shakespeare by yourself and try to make it up to me by taking me to Vaison-la-'sodding'-Romaine, did you?"

"What was wrong with Vaison?" asked the Doctor, stung.

"Well, for starters, it was 100 AD and it was crawling with Roman Centurions who decided that I should be sold into slavery, and _then_ I ended up in some filthy brothel up in Gaul and they'd tattooed me before you deigned to get off your arse and rescue me! I'm now scarred for this entire regeneration!"

"You do exaggerate," said the Doctor, smiling indulgently. "I seem to remember that you weren't complaining when that gladiator took a fancy to you…"

"You wouldn't complain either if a six-foot hunk of super-human strength was professing his love for you…" muttered the Master. "You'd fear for your life too much…"

Shakespeare watched the exchange between the two Time Lords with growing hilarity. "Come, my friends," he said, shaking with laughter. "We'll retire to the ale house."

Sensing that this would be the best offer they would get all day, the Doctor and the Master followed Shakespeare to the nearest pub.

…

The inn was dimly lit with flickering stubs of candle wax and the ale smelt faintly of the pigs that were stationed behind the building. Shakespeare gulped his beer down while the two Time Lords scrutinised theirs suspiciously.

"So, Doctor, how is Martha? Is she still as beautiful as a summer's day?" asked Shakespeare, setting his tankard down and surveying the Doctor expectantly.

"Martha?" hissed the Master. "You took _Martha _to meet Shakespeare before me?"

"Master…" began the Doctor, a warning note lilting in his voice.

"No. Don't _'Master…'_ me! What's that two-bit excuse for a UNIT operative got that I haven't? Hmm?"

"Um…a medical degree?"

"Oh come _on_," exclaimed the Master. "Anyone can get one of those nowadays! Hell, I could walk into a university right now and walk into a hospital the same day!"

"Actually," said the Doctor, squirming uncomfortably. "You're thinking of medical degrees in the 51st Century…on Clom. On Earth, they're a lot harder."

"I can think of something _else_ that's a lot harder," muttered the Master, pointedly looking at Shakespeare as the Doctor cringed. "But none of those stupid apes have an amazingly powerful Time Lord brain…except maybe _you_…" he said, focusing on Shakespeare. The Master appraised him critically, taking in his reaction to the Time Lords in front of him before saying, "I take it that shagging is off the table?"

Shakespeare looked puzzled. "What's wrong with _on_ the table?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow and the Master grinned wickedly. "Now _that's_ my sort of play!" He stood up, about to walk around the table and rip the playwright's clothes off when there was a faint _'pop'_ and an elderly man appeared looking thoroughly perplexed.

The Master's predatory stare faltered and he gaped at the old man before the Doctor got to his feet and peered at the new arrival in the dim light.

"Wilf?"

"Oh for the love of Rassilon's Dribble of Doom!" exclaimed the Master, throwing up his arms and turning to stare at the Doctor in an accusatory fashion. "You're _determined_ I'm not going to enjoy meeting Shakespeare, aren't you!"

Shakespeare shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption. "So, shall I tell Dolly we'd like a room for four?" The Master glared at him.


	5. Electronic Seduction

In which the Master attempts electronic seduction…

The Doctor had finally persuaded himself that it would be better if he tried to explain the situation to Jack personally, and had made the return trip to the Torchwood Hub. The Master was behaving like a difficult two-year-old, but the Doctor had dragged him out of the TARDIS and onto the hidden lift. As they descended into the Hub, Myfanwy the Pterodactyl seemingly decided that the Master looked like he would make a good after-dinner snack, and the Doctor had to use the sonic to speed up the progress of the lift in order to avoid starting his heart-to-heart confession to Jack with the phrase _"I'm really sorry that there's a toasted Pterodactyl in your main tech area, but I can explain everything…"_ He'd have to ban the Master from carrying dark chocolate around with him.

Jack greeted them warily, keeping his eyes on the Master at all times. The Doctor suggested that they should go to the Boardroom and discuss things, and Jack - still uncomfortable with the Master's presence and the maniacal smirk that he kept shooting in Myfanwy's direction – ordered Ianto to play babysitter to the psychopathic one.

…

The Doctor leant back in the comfortably plush chair that Jack had offered him and propped his feet up on the glass of the Boardroom table. Jack had ventured out for one of Ianto's industrial strength coffee, leaving the Doctor alone to contemplate what other excuses there were about taking up with your psycho ex-boyfriend who tried to destroy the Universe several times over that might fly with Jack. Somehow he felt that he had exhausted them all. Just as he was contemplating this, Martha's mobile rang.

"Hello?"

"What are you wearing?"

"What? Jack, is that you?"

"It's me, you idiot. Answer the question."

"Master, what are you-? Where's Ianto?"

"Coffee Boy disappeared about an hour ago. Probably to shag Jack. Now...Answer. The. Question."

"You saw me half an hour ago." The Doctor sighed. "Why, what are you wearing?"

There was a worrying pause before the Master replied;

"Nothing."

"Did the TARDIS lock you out of the wardrobe again?"

"Oh for god's sake! We can do this properly or not at all. Final offer."

"We can do what properly?"

"You know, sometimes I wonder there's life on this TARDIS…then I remember, oh yeah, there is, it's just in the form of a blithering idiot! Take some time. Think it through. Why would I be naked…? What could I possibly be doing without clothes…? Come on, you can do this…"

"Oh. Oh. Ohh, now I get it!" The Doctor beamed.

"Congratulations. A+. You get the gold star today." The Master sighed, already sounding bored.

"We haven't done this before." The Doctor rocked back onto his heels slightly.

"We did, once." The Master corrected, sounding miffed. "At the Academy. With those audio sensory devices-"

"I remember." The Doctor shuddered. "You said that was a private frequency-"

"I lied. More fun if you know someone else is getting a bit of excitement out of it as well. Now can we get on with this before it goes past its sell-by date? Please."

"Did you just...beg?"

"Don't start. I'm warning you…"

Silence, for a moment.

"Are you really naked? Only I haven't powered up the internal drivers today, it's cold in here."

"Can we not talk about the heating and try and focus on the fact that I. Am. Not. Wearing. ANYTHING!" The Master demanded. "Honestly! Could you just try to not care? Just this once?"

"You want me to be horrible to you?" The Doctor asked, slowly.

"No, I want you to shut up and say something that'll kick this otherwise pointless call up a rating. Preferably to something above a PG…I'd prefer it to be a least a little too raunchy for a ten-year-old."

"You want me to shut up and speak? Simultaneously?"

"You're honestly focussing on _that_ part of the conversation? You're unbelievable!" The Master grumbled. "Anyway," He lowered his voice to a whisper. "We need to hurry up. I guarantee, as soon as this gets...interesting, we'll be interrupted. Something will happen, some idiotic human of yours will fall into peril. And it always seems to be that irritating old codger who gets in the way; you know which one I mean."

"Wilf?" The Doctor answered, surprised. Then - "If you think insulting my friends is going to make me give you what you want, you're mistaken."

"Is this where you get all 'Oncoming Storm' on my ass?" The Master sounded excited about the idea. "'Cause I'm all for a bit of role-playing if that helps. Although I draw the line at pretending to be Davros…or a Slitheen. That's just not sexy in any way, shape, or form."

"Probably is to another Slitheen…" the Doctor muttered. The Master pretended not to hear him.

Another silence, longer than the last. The Doctor could hear the Master tapping his fingers against something down the line.

"Where did you get a phone, anyway?" He wondered.

"Doctor-"

"And where did you get my number? AND what's the point in all this phone lark, when I can easily come downstairs and-" A beep. "...'Call Waiting', what? It's…um…Wilf…"

"You have got to be kidding me. I hate humans."


	6. Copper Wire

In which the Master complains about copper wire and the Doctor realises that he is on a date… 

"You do realise we're getting married, don't you?"

The Doctor stopped dead, like someone had finally found his 'Pause' button; wine glass frozen halfway to his lips. He looked like a ridiculous cartoon character, the Master thought, with his hair larger than usual and his mouth half open.

The Master sighed, stabbed his fork into his spaghetti and started to think saying anything had been a terrible idea.

"W-what?" The Doctor managed at last, setting the glass back down on the table abruptly, eyes wider than usual.

"Nothing." The Master snapped, hunching his shoulders and snatching the wine bottle from between them to fill up his glass. "I've changed my mind now."

"We're getting married?" The Doctor asked, slowly, frowning slightly, as though concentrating. "Hang on, how much have I had? When did you ask? When did I agree?"

The Master slammed down his glass so violently that wine slopped over the white tablecloth.

"Didn't I just say that I've changed my mind? You've not had much, unless there's some secret hip-flask hidden in one of those ridiculously huge pockets…in which case, learn to share! And besides, you didn't answer anything because I didn't ask."

The Doctor was staring at him like he'd sprouted an extra head, gills and antlers, which wasn't helping his sudden bad mood at all.

"You want us to get married." The Doctor said, slowly, smirking in that way this regeneration of his had, that meant the Master was torn between punching or kissing him. Or, as was more ordinary with them, it seemed - both.

"I didn't say that." The Master backtracked, hurriedly.

"Alright, admittedly you didn't say exactly that, although it would have been nice. Was that you proposing? Honestly, Master, I'd have expected better from you. Although, this is nice," The Doctor added, quickly, apparently attempting to save the Master's feelings, gesturing at the restaurant around them. "Really nice." He seemed lost for words again, mouth working silently, until he realised, and closed it with a snap. "This is a date."

"This is _NOT_ a date." The Master fumed, leaning back in his chair, as far away from the Doctor as he could manage at their small table.

"This is a date!" The Doctor said, voice loud and gleeful. Several life forms from the surrounding tables turned to look at them. The Doctor's smirk was a full-blown grin now. He couldn't have been any more visibly pleased with himself.

"This is called _din-ner_," the Master said slowly, breaking the word into syllables as if talking to a child. "This is what normal people do when they're not cooped up in a box for days on end with your hopeless cooking! I just wanted a nice meal when I wasn't going to find bits of copper wire in my soup and you're going on about weddings and marriage and…_commitment_…" He said the word as if it was dirty (although if it had been, he'd have gotten more enjoyment from saying it in the first place) and glared at the Doctor, as if the whole conversation had been his fault.

The Doctor leant back in his chair, taking an incredibly smug sip of wine. "It's a date."


	7. Six Point Eight Billion Humans

**A/N: Um. Yeah...so I had _'Poker Face'_ stuck in my head when I wrote this one xD**

In which the Doctor knows 6.8 billion Humans…

"-All I'm saying is that they should've paid more attention to their gambling archives. Russian Roulette just isn't the same without a gun, just ask Lady Gaga!"

"And all _I'm_ saying is that 51st Century guns fire laser beams of Volen anti-matter. Playing Russian Roulette with _those_ things is enough to reduce the entire planet to dust and _then_ rip a hole in the Sun!"

"Yeah, but that aside, it'd be a lot more interesting…"

The Doctor sighed. "We'll have to agree to disagree on this one. Come on, we should get back to the TARDIS. I've got a job for us to do."

"If it involves reassembling that pool table in the rec room, then you can forget it."

"What's wrong with that pool table?"

"It creaks. And it gives you splinters. And it gives way under you if you put too many balls on it. And-"

"-Don't exaggerate, it's not-"

"-One might _almost_ wonder what you'd been doing on-" The Master cleared his throat and corrected himself hastily. "-I mean, _to_ it…"

Realisation dawned across the Doctor's face, his mouth forming a perfect O. The Master smirked and reached into his jacket, pulling out a little pink book.

"You, erm, um, you've been in, uh, Rose's room?" stammered the Doctor, eyeing the book cautiously, as if it might explode.

"Hmm," said the Master, opening the book and flicking through a few pages. "It's a good read too. Very…_descriptive_…Shall I read you an extract?" The question was teasing, the Master's tongue poked out from between his teeth as he selected a passage to read. He cleared his throat dramatically, affected a squeaky cockney accent and began to read.

"_Dear Diary, spent a good hour or two in the rec room today. That pool table isn't the best place to shag, I've got a few splinters in my arse now, but he seems to like it. The Doctor. Hmm, I really love how he looks after we've finished…Oh, diary, he's soooo _dreamy_!"_

"Now hang on just a second! It does _not_ say _that_!" exclaimed the Doctor, looking affronted as he snatched the book from the Master's hand.

"And you would know this _how_, exactly?" he asked smoothly, eyebrows raised.

The Doctor - who was halfway through the TARDIS doors - stopped mid-walk and turned around slowly. "Because…because, um…because…" he stammered.

If it was even possible to achieve, the Master smirked even more. "Because…you've _read_ it?" he enquired teasingly.

"No! I would _never _invade a companion's privacy like that!" The Doctor attempted to look affronted by the suggestion but failed miserably. He sighed. "Yeah. Ok, so I may have had a little peek after she'd gotten trapped in the Parallel Universe but you know what happens to me if I get curious and I can't do anything about it!"

"Yeah, you come out in a rash, I know…I'm quite glad you, what was it? '_Had a little peek'_? You're impossible when you're ill."

"I'm an impeccable patient, I'll have you know!"

"Yeah, bet you say that to all the girls! Come on, what's this job?"

"Ah, glad you asked me that," said the Doctor, sprinting into the TARDIS and crouching down on the floor. He opened a panel of grating and reached inside, pulling out a battered wooden trunk. He opened it and started chucking things out in every direction, muttering things like _'No, I'm going to need that later…'_ and _'Where the hell did that come from?'_ before finally producing a big leather-bound book. "Here we are! Address book!" he said gleefully.

"Bloody hell! How many people do you _know_?" asked the Master, staring at the huge book and gibbering.

"Weeeeellll, um, if we discount all the ones who are just acquaintances, that leaves about…ooh, 6.8 billion?"

The Master was silent for a moment whilst he got his voice under control and his eyes stopped bulging quite so much. He cleared his throat quietly and gulped. "So, basically, what you're telling me is that you know the entire population of Planet Earth?"

"Give or take a couple of people…yeah, I suppose I do." The Doctor rummaged around under the grating again and pulled out an equally huge book. He threw it at the Master, who caught it a little too late and dropped it on his toe. "You can have A-L!" said the Doctor, as if this was some sort of treat.


	8. Oral Fixation

In which the Doctor plays with his oral fixation…

Ianto Jones hated weddings.

He hated them. He hated the ceremony, hated the fact that people plastered on fake smiles and managed a few pathetic tears during the 'I do's. Hated the receptions, which inevitably involved finger food. (If there was something Ianto hated more than weddings, it was eating without a knife and fork.)

The problem was, he was good at weddings. He knew how they should work. It was like a complicated jigsaw puzzle that he hated, and yet somehow, he managed to fit the pieces together with ease.

Which was why he'd been coerced into organising a ceremony for the two men sat in front of him. One was carefully licking the icing off his third cupcake. The other was watching with a somewhat glassy eyed expression, mouth half open. He tapped his fingers distractedly against the desk that - thankfully - separated Ianto from them.

"Do you have any ideas?" He asked, loudly.

The Doctor eyed him, thoughtfully, for a moment, tongue hovering over the cake in his hand.

"Can you just…stop. Now. I'm not joking this time." The Master forced the demand through now-gritted teeth, trying to regain control over his more primal instincts.  
The Doctor stopped looking at Ianto then (for which he was thankful), to glance at his quite possibly insane husband-to-be.

"Stop what?" He asked, innocently, making a show of licking crumbs from his fingers.

"Don't play coy with me, Doctor." The Master fumed, gripping the edge of Jack's desk so ferociously that everything rattled. "I'm not one of your Earth bimbos. You know full well what I'm talking about."

"Erm...The ceremony?" Ianto tried again.

The Doctor looked from the cake, to the Master, and back again.

"Do you want some?" He asked, with a cheerful smile.

The Master's grin was equally cheerful as he said, "Don't push it. I could quite happily kill you right now."

The Doctor gave the cupcake one last lick, before putting it down on the desk. "You'd miss me if you did. Not to mention my tongue."

Ianto coughed, loudly. "I'm sorry, but we're here to talk about your...wedding." He interrupted.

The two time lords fixed him with equally unnerving stares. The Doctor beamed at him.

"Are you having the ceremony on Earth, or...?"

"We're not calling it a 'wedding', are we?" The Doctor wrinkled his nose, as though the idea was offensive to him.

Ianto opened his mouth to respond, but the Master got there first. "What else do you expect us to call it? It _is_ a wedding…besides, it's a ridiculous human tradition and since you _love_ humans so much, I'd have thought you'd be begging for it." He closed his eyes for a second, imagining the Doctor on his knees, begging to marry him. A smug smirk spread across his face.

"'Wedding'. It's so ordinary. Everyone has a wedding. Why don't we call it something else?"

"I-"

"Oh, please tell me you don't go along with that 'civil partnership' rubbish. A wedding is a wedding."

"No, I don't 'go along' with anything, which is why I think our wedding should be different from every other ceremony-"

"If you're not careful, I'll be marrying a corpse!" The Master hissed.

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "I wish you'd stop threatening to kill me, after all this time it's just a little repetitive. Besides, we both know you'll never actually follow through with it, so what's the point?"

The Master swallowed, carefully, teeth gritted. "This is your fault." He muttered.

"What's my fault?" The Doctor demanded.

"First the lollipops. That wasn't so bad. Then the ice cream. Chocolate. Bananas. I mean, who the hell licks _bananas?_" A pause, a very pointed look. "The sonic screwdriver."

"That was a chemical analysis, I had to gauge which residual energy-"

"So what's your excuse for the cakes? Testing the sugar-to-batter ratio?" The Master interrupted, with a sneer.

"It's this regeneration, the tongue, it's...useful." The Doctor said, lamely, blushing slightly. "I'm always doing it."

"Yeah but you don't use it for anything I could actually _enjoy_, do you?"

The Doctor looked to Ianto as if for support. "I think we should-"

"I have two instincts when it comes to you." The Master cut in, putting unnecessary emphasis on each word, fists clenched. "The first being to shag you so hard and for so long that neither of us can walk. The second is to kill you. And since the first seems to be eternally denied, thanks to that ridiculous old codger and his podgy Welsh mate who seem to have a fetish for voyeurism, I have to sit here and imagine all the different creative and violent ways to stop you and your over-active tongue. Permanently."

They were glaring at each other, faces very close. Ianto moved his chair back, slightly, ready to leave the room and possibly the base altogether.

"So," Ianto doubted he'd ever been happier to hear Jack's voice. He appeared at the door of the office, smiling at them all. "How's the wedding planning going?"


	9. Mexican Food

**A/N: This might be our last chapter for a couple of weeks because the next chapter due is one of LiteratiAngel's unfinished ones and she has 'Writing Week' coming up, which means she has three rather large essays due in on the same day. The second she finishes it, we'll post it, so don't worry...To paraphrase Arnold Schwartzenegger, _"We'll be back!"..._**

In which the Doctor loves Mexican food…

"I'm not doing it, Jack." Ianto murmured, later. They were watching the Doctor and the Master - sat on the sofa. The Doctor had his head in the Master's lap, his eyes closed. The Master was talking, a small smile on his face. If he hadn't been present for their recent dispute, Ianto would have assumed they were completely and totally smitten with each other. "They're insane. I thought they were about to start killing each other."

Jack shrugged. "They probably were. It's their thing."

Ianto took a sip of coffee, and watched Jack. "You don't like him. The Master." He said, at last. It was less of a sudden realisation and more of an invitation. Jack hated the Master; this was his chance to talk about it.

Jack huffed a laugh that let him know how much of an understatement that was. "The Doctor chose him." Ianto caught the incredulity behind the words. "Not much I can do about it."

"He killed the President." Ianto mused, watching the man in question, who was running deceptively gentle hands through the Doctor's hair. "I mean, I never particularly liked the President. Forever complaining about us. But still. He killed someone."

"The Doc says he's better now. He's changed." Jack's eyes were hard and cold, all of a sudden. "But I don't know…"

"People can change." Ianto shrugged. They were both living proof of that.

Jack's eyes didn't move from the Doctor. "He's happy." Jack's voice got, if possible, quieter. "I've never seen him this happy."

Ianto wondered at the hidden meaning behind the words. Was Jack jealous? Not something he wanted to contemplate, but a definite possibility. "Do you think you could make him happier?" Ianto forced the question out, already afraid of the reply.

"That's not..." Jack looked at Ianto, quickly. "I'm not jealous. This isn't...I love him." His voice cracked, slightly, and Ianto thought he was going to be sick. "Not the way you think, but I love him. And the Master..." There it was again, the clench of his jaw, like he could hardly bear to say his name.

"He's happy." Ianto managed, words thick in his throat. "Isn't that good?"

"It's great." Jack said, none of the sentiment of the words in his voice. He paused, coughed, seemed to pull himself together. "I want him to be happy. I want them to be happy."

"I'll make sure it's the best wedding. Ever." Ianto promised, slipping his fingers through Jack's.

…

"We need to get them to bond." The Doctor mused, a few days later, creeping up behind Ianto at the coffee machine. He almost jumped, straightened his tie, and turned to reply.

"Who?"

The Doctor nudged him, conspiratorial. "Jack. The Master. They're so alike, and yet they both hate each other." He paused, picking at a loose thread on his tie for a second, before continuing. "I mean, yes, torture can breed certain feelings of...animosity. But the Master's sorry, I'm sure he is."

"Torture?" Ianto repeated.

"Um," The Doctor was suddenly reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights. When he spoke again, his voice emerged several octaves too high. "Did I say torture? I meant tortilla. Possibly. Maybe. They'll fight over anything, right?" He swallowed, snatched a cold cup of coffee off the tray in front of Ianto, and gulped it down, managing to get most of it down his chin in his haste. "Lovely. Nothing like a good cup of coffee. Molto bene." He wiped his mouth, beamed, and all but ran away from Ianto.


End file.
